


we're still the same, we're still the same

by raumdeuter



Category: Bayern Munich RPF, Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 18:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5466671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raumdeuter/pseuds/raumdeuter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Philipp is ten years old, a scout from 1860 comes to FT Gern and asks him to try out for the youth team. </p><p>That doesn't end up happening, but a lot of other things do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we're still the same, we're still the same

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kawaii Dragoness (fandomonymous)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomonymous/gifts).



> Dear Recip,
> 
> Thanks so much for giving me the chance to write this! I love Philipp but for some reason I'd never read _Der feine Unterschied_ all the way through, so thanks for giving me a chance to finally do that! (Incidentally, anything you particularly like about his characterization here is probably from the book, and I take full responsibility for anything you don't!)
> 
> I hope this is as fun for you to read as it was for me to write! Happy Yuletide!

When Philipp is ten years old, a scout from 1860 comes to FT Gern and asks him to try out for the youth team.

Philipp’s uncle played for Gern. So did his grandfather. And years and years ago, a scout from 1860 came around and made the exact same offer to his father. No doubt they think the son will accept what the father declined. You make a lot of friends at Gern, but you don’t win a lot of trophies.

Philipp turns them down because the training pitch fence has two holes in it. He’ll sign his soul away one day, he thinks. But for the right price.

For a while he thinks maybe he blew his one chance to make it big. Kids from Gern aren’t supposed to turn down mid-table Bundesliga teams just because they think they have a shot at something better. But one year later he’s standing on another pitch in Munich, this one perfectly maintained, and a blond kid his own age is shaking his hand.

“Hey,” he says, with the sort of lazy confidence reserved for the giants on the first team, “I’m Bastian,” and Philipp knows he’s made the right choice.

 

\---

 

Stuttgart is--different.

It isn’t as if it’s some kind of exile, not really. What it is, Philipp decides, is a chance to become something Bayern needs without burdening her with the inevitable mistakes he’ll make along the way. It’s like something out of an old fairytale: the wandering prince, gone to learn what life among the people is like. He’ll return a better person for it.

Maybe it’s presumptuous of him to assume the role of royalty so soon when he’s only just left the Regionalliga behind. He’s always believed in setting realistic goals. Small ones. But something changes when he sets foot on the pitch in Bayern red. When the stadium leaps to life around him the flame of ambition inside him suddenly burns fever-bright, familiar and tantalizing, and for a few brief seconds he thinks _I can become anything_.

Anyway, it’s not as if he doesn’t have realistic plans for his time at Stuttgart. A brief stint as a last-minute first-team sub doesn’t make him a pro. He’s well aware of that. He keeps his head down, accepts all advice given him, keeps his shinguards on even when he’s benched in case of an unexpected substitution. If he wants to succeed, he has stay one step ahead of everyone else.

He doesn’t plan for Timo.

To be fair, he doesn’t think Timo plans for him, either. They don’t really talk to one another, at least not at first. For all his aspirations of returning to Bayern a conquering hero Philipp still finds himself reluctant to put himself forward, and Timo, for his part, isn’t a man of many words. But chance, or fate, or Felix Magath (which doesn’t sound nearly as impressive) puts Philipp’s locker next to Timo’s, and assigns them a room together for away matches. Somewhere between the painfully stiff maneuvering to get past each other to the showers and the inevitable awkward silences the first few times they share a bathroom, Philipp discovers that Timo’s reserve isn’t the same as standoffishness, and Timo, for whatever reason, takes a liking to him. Nobody can really predict the whatever-this-is that starts up between them, and when it does start up they’re both of them too pleased with this turn of events to care.

Never mind that he’s supposed to see Stuttgart as a stepping stone to bigger and brighter things; never mind that he knows perfectly well it can’t last. When Philipp wakes up on his couch with Timo’s six-foot-and-change bulk sprawled on top of him, he thinks he could stay like this forever: late morning sunlight peeking in through the blinds, the faint smell of last night’s takeout, and Timo’s hair tickling the side of his face as he drools into the cushions.

He can’t, of course. At the end of his loan period he comes back to Munich, older, at least, if not wiser, with Timo’s number saved on his phone and a free-standing invitation to drop by any time. When he steps into the locker room at Säbener Straße, Basti’s the first to welcome him back: a firm handshake, a steady grin, like Philipp was never gone in the first place.

“Hey,” says Basti, “is it just me, or did you get taller while you were away?”

There’s something else Philipp hasn’t planned for, either: how it feels like he’s starting over again at Bayern, how the Südkurve will cheer for him but will roar for Basti, for _Schweini_. It would be uncharitable to call it jealousy. Even now, with Basti still more an acquaintance than a friend, he knows he could never begrudge him that. But for a moment the emotion is so similar that it gives Philipp pause.

 

\---

 

One year later, and all of Allianz Arena is screaming his name.

It happens in a blur, Boro to Schweini to Miro, and then suddenly the ball pops up over two Costa Rican defenders and lands a short sprint away from him, acres of space away from anyone else, and he might not have the killer instinct of a striker but this is different, this is _his_ , and before he can even think about what he’s doing he picks it up, cuts inside, shoots--

It’s his right foot that makes contact with the ball. A nanosecond of doubt--enough time for a million _what if_ s, enough time to relive the entire miserable year, _Mr. Lahm, your metatarsal--your ACL--your tricep--_ and then the ball hits the net, just grazing the far post, still spinning, perfect, and all around him the stadium bursts into brilliant black-red-gold.

He’s vaguely aware of Fringser tackling him, then Schweini hot on his heels, whooping at the top of his lungs all the while, but across the field by the bench a lone figure is standing, arms raised in triumph, and suddenly Philipp’s world narrows to a single point. He doesn’t even remember how he manages to dodge the entire team on his way across the pitch, only that he does, and then Timo’s arms are around him and his feet are off the ground, and for a single mad instant Philipp thinks he could kiss him, right here, right now, and nobody would care.

The entire bus buzzes all the way back to the hotel. People keep honking their horns as they go past, cops stopping to salute, and behind him Schweini and Poldi are singing along with the radio, that terrible earworm of a Xavier Naidoo song which will never leave the ears of anyone who participates in this tournament for as long as they live.

Logically, he knows 4-2 against Costa Rica won’t be good enough to win the tournament--there were too many defensive mistakes made during the match, both the goals they conceded easily avoidable. But the energy around him is infectious, his goal settling warm in his chest, and just for tonight, he thinks, he can turn that part of his brain off.

Even his sense of realism isn’t enough to stop him from feeling disappointed when they fall to Italy in the semifinals. He remembers watching the World Cup on TV in 2002, remembers the same leaden pit opening up in his stomach then, too. But he’s young, he has time, and Timo’s not so much older that he won’t have another shot at the Cup either, and the upcoming Euros to boot.

Or so they think.

After the dust has settled, Philipp tries to keep in touch with Timo, but it’s harder than he expects. Valencia is a long way away, and change is afoot at Bayern: Hitzfeld out, Klinsi in. Suddenly Philipp finds all his time is taken up contending with a coach who has always preferred a rousing speech to actual tactics.

 _Bayern can do better_ , he thinks, on the heels of yet another defeat. _Germany can do better._ And almost immediately after that thought comes the realization: _I can do better._

 

\---

 

Twelve years after he leaves Gern, he returns with Bayern to play a friendly.

Much later, after a brilliant semifinal against Argentina, a reporter will ask him if he’s ever pitied the opponents they’ve crushed. It’s a stupid question. As if there could be anything more disrespectful than pity on a football pitch.

He’s not superstitious enough to think beating his childhood team 18:0 is a sign--what did he think would happen, after all?--but it’s some kind of reminder, anyway.

 

\---

 

“I don’t get it,” says Basti.

And it is Basti, now, not Schweini, and when it isn’t Basti it’s Herr Schweinsteiger. He’s very insistent on it. So far the media have indulged him.

“What’s there to get?” says Philipp.

“You,” says Basti, which isn’t all that surprising, considering it isn’t every day Karl-Heinz Rummenigge storms into the locker room and reads Philipp the riot act in front of the whole team. “What the fuck were you thinking, going to the press over van Bommel’s head? Over the boards’ heads? Didn’t you think there would be consequences?”

“Of course,” says Philipp. “But look, Basti, you have to have seen the way things have been going lately. We’ve gone up through the ranks together--you tell me, is this the team we signed for all those years ago? We buy any player who’s scored against us, we collect midfielders like Panini cards--”

“You think I don’t know that?” says Basti. “You think I don’t feel every single one of those midfielders breathing down my neck every time I fuck up?”

“It’s not about that!” Philipp drags his hands through his hair. “It’s about the club! Last season Klinsmann sold our identity to the highest bidder and now the board thinks we can just buy ourselves a new one! I’m trying to fix that, can’t you see? We keep going down this road and we’ll be the soulless corporation everyone likes to think we are. And if the board won’t listen to me say it, maybe they’ll listen to the press.”

Basti stares at him.

He’s not stupid. He has to know what Philipp’s trying to do here. But his name isn’t the only thing about him that’s changed over the last couple of years.

Philipp takes a deep breath. “The bosses make a big enough stink about it, and all everyone sees is ‘Bayern player pays astronomical fee because he can’t keep his mouth shut.’” He spreads his hands. “I see it, too. But it’s not a fine to me. It’s an investment.”

“They’ll bench you for it,” says Basti, finally. “They’ll kick you all the way down to the amateurs.”

“They won’t.” And the thing is, he hasn’t been sure of it until now. But once he says it out loud like that, it’s almost like it’s become real. They won’t bench him. They’ll fine him, sure, and they’ll make their displeasure excruciatingly well known, but they can’t bench him. Not when they know he’s right.

Basti still doesn’t look reassured. “You could have said something to me first.”

And that--that hurts, more than Basti probably thinks it would. _No_ , thinks Philipp, wearily, _I couldn’t have._ Schweini, maybe, but not Basti. Basti is different. Basti demands respect and gives it in equal measure. Basti has newfound responsibilities. Basti is a little more aware of the party line, and Philipp wishes he weren’t.

“You didn’t need to get involved,” he says aloud, and Basti snorts.

“Sounds like we’re involved anyway, whether we wanted to be or not. We’re a team, Fips. You didn’t have to put yourself in the line of fire for the rest of us. That’s not how we work around here, either.”

He’s right. Philipp knows he is. This has never been how they work. But some part of him can’t accept that, not yet. He reaches out, slowly, and takes Basti by the shoulders.

“I turned down Man United for this,” Philipp says, quietly. “I turned down Barça. Because Bayern is my home. Believe me when I say I’ll do anything for her.”

For a long moment, Basti doesn’t move. Then he exhales slowly, the lines in his neck relaxing, and he takes a step back, like a soldier falling in.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. But so will I.”

A couple of weeks later, Kalle is in the papers saying _I could see Philipp Lahm as captain of Bayern someday_ , and when Basti catches Philipp’s eye in the locker room he nods, just once, and smiles.

 

\---

 

Leadership is a tricky business.

This is the thing about Oliver Kahn, about Michael Ballack: they’re a dying breed of captain. Gone are the days when the team might have revolved around a central figure, standing tall at the back or in the midfield. Germany are a modern team now, says Jogi, and a modern team needs modern leaders, whatever that means.

But everyone on the first team at Bayern has a story about the first time the Titan spoke to them, like God descending from the mountain to speak to His people. Philipp remembers his own clear as day: 1:2 Czech Republic, 2004. The crushing disappointment, the horrible emptiness that followed. And Olli’s hand on his shoulder, suddenly, like absolution: _It’s not on you_.

Philipp is well aware those are shoes he’ll never fill. He can’t lift guilt off a man with a single touch and a few short words, the same way he’ll never win an aerial duel or muscle someone off the pitch. What he can do is different, maybe better: read between the lines, talk to his teammates one-on-one, prevent conflicts before they start.

Granted, his approach has problems of its own. What Philipp intends to be a democratic process the press sees as toothless. When he organizes a team council--more eyes on the pitch, more eyes on the new kids--they view it as a lack of presence. The skepticism is silenced only briefly by the bronze they bring home from South Africa. A young team, with a young captain--bronze isn’t bad, given the circumstances. (He doesn’t believe that himself--he doesn’t think anyone does--but he appreciates the show of faith nevertheless.)

But then Bayern stumbles against Schalke, and they stumble against Inter Milan, and before they know it they’re fighting for a CL spot while Louis van Gaal packs his bags. Suddenly the grumbling starts up again, and Philipp tries not to let it get to him, but--

“But it should bother you,” says Basti after practice one day. “It’s a challenge to your authority.”

“I don’t see how,” says Philipp. “It shouldn’t change how anyone on the team thinks of me. Unless it has?” He raises an eyebrow meaningfully and Basti huffs, punches him lightly on the shoulder.

“Idiot,” he says. “You know what I mean.”

“The press is never content with anything; they wouldn’t be the press if they were.”

Basti frowns. “As I recall, you seemed pretty happy to use that discontent a couple years back.”

 _Ah_. So that’s what this is about. “There’s a pretty big difference between the _Süddeutsche Zeitung_ and the _Sport Bild_.” When Basti’s frown only deepens, Philipp adds, “And there’s a difference between using the press and pissing them off.”

“It’s a question of respect,” says Basti shortly, and Philipp finally thinks he understands.

It’s not _don’t call me Schweini_ all over again, not really, but it still is. If ambition flares to life in Philipp’s chest every time he pulls on the armband, something else burns in Basti’s. Philipp doesn’t know what to call it. It isn’t the need for recognition. Validation, maybe. A chance to prove he’s no _Chefchen_. All these years he’s commanded the hearts of the ultras--all these years he’s had Angela fucking Merkel wrapped around his little finger--and he still won’t feel like he’s earned it until he’s brought home a trophy that matters.

Philipp isn’t Olli. God knows he’ll never be Micha, either. But he has to wonder, sometimes, if Basti feels like _he_ ought to be instead.

 

\---

 

It’s one thing when the press is criticizing you. You can shrug it off, after a fashion: it’s not like they know what’s going on behind the scenes. It’s another when the criticism is coming from your own camp. Philipp’s never been the sort of footballer who only listens to positive interviews, but now, listening to Olli Kahn deride his and Basti’s lack of leadership skills on ZDF, he kind of wishes he were.

The worst part of it is he can’t even say Olli’s wrong. How many semifinals and finals have they choked on already as a club? As a country? The list drags out behind them like a funeral march; it’s a wonder they have any disappointment left to feel at this point. And just when Philipp starts to think they might have run out, Didier Drogba fires a perfect shot into the bottom left corner of the net in front of a stunned and silenced Südkurve, and he finds a metaphorical treasure trove of disappointment tucked between the cushions of the metaphorical sofa.

They’re none of them particularly brilliant in Poland and Ukraine that summer, for reasons nobody has to mention, but there’s something else lacking, too. It’s inevitable, after a fashion--a team with as much depth as Germany has is bound to leave talent on the bench. And when that talent is used to seeing the players replacing him as rivals across the pitch--well.

Considering the relative disaster that was Bayern’s most recent title campaign (and he’s well aware that there are worse disasters than ‘second best at everything’), he’s not surprised when Bayern goals aren’t met with Dortmund cheers from the bench, and vice versa. Disappointed, maybe, but it’s early days yet, and Germany have always been a tournament team. But then it keeps happening, and back at the hotel, the inevitable cracks start to show: awkward silences, comments just short of snide. Of course he tries to patch things up, but he’s afraid it might be a case of too little, too late, especially when his armband marks him as a captain of more than just the national team.

Thousands of miles away, in America, Micha smiles at his coworkers and says _I’m always for the Germans_ , but that isn’t at all the same thing as trust, and when Italy sends them home in the semifinals, it’s almost a relief: better to leave than keep drawing out the farce.

“There’s nothing wrong with morale,” Philipp tells a dubious sea of reporters, and the words don’t stick in his throat. They shouldn’t, after so many years: they’re the sort of cliches everyone has come to expect. Now, after everything, this is the only instinct he has left: Protect the team. Keep it safe. Lock everything down until the damage can be be assessed.

What nobody expects is for Basti to contradict him weeks later. “Team cohesion sucked during the Euros,” he says. “We can’t let it happen again.”

He doesn’t say: _also we were shit, we played like shit, and time is running out for us_ , but everyone hears it anyway.

These aren’t the first Euros Philipp’s blundered through, but it is the first one where it feels like Basti might not have his back. As much as it stings, he knows why Basti is doing this, or he thinks he does: Basti is frustrated, he’s angry, he’s exhausted. They all are.

Philipp doesn’t say anything. He can’t, as much as he would like to, in case what comes out is something he might regret. So it’s Basti who confronts him in the parking lot after another press conference, leaning against Philipp’s car with feigned nonchalance. He’s wearing one of his endless collection of scarves, light grey, looped around his shoulders, and it matches the streaks of silver at his temples (and when did that happen, Philipp wonders, when did they both get so old?).

“Hey,” says Basti.

Philipp nods.

“Listen,” says Basti. “About the PK--”

“I’m not interested,” says Philipp. Then, realizing how blunt that sounded: “I mean, the tournament’s over. What’s done is done. We need to focus on the upcoming season. On the World Cup, too, for what it’s worth.”

“I know,” says Basti. “That’s why I said what I did.”

“I don’t see how saying what you did could possibly improve team morale,” says Philipp, perhaps a little snippier than he intends.

Basti’s eyes widen. “I wasn’t--was that what you think I was doing? Going behind your back? Jesus, Fips, do you really think I’d do that?”

“Then why--” begins Philipp, and stops, realization slowly dawning. They’ve had this conversation before, he thinks. Only last time--

“If the team won’t listen to a couple of assholes from Bayern, maybe they’ll listen to the press.” Basti offers a halfhearted grin. “Thought I’d take a page from your book.”

Of course. Of _course_. He’s been so stupid. “You really think it’ll work?”

“Not a clue.” Basti’s grin widens tentatively. “Worth a try, though, right?”

“I--” says Philipp. “I thought maybe...”

“Yeah, I figured you would.” The grin slides away from Basti’s face, and Philipp’s stomach drops. But all Basti does is lean forward and poke Philipp once, lightly, in the chest. “You don’t have the conniving bastard market cornered, no matter what you might think.”

Philipp laughs, feeling oddly lightheaded. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Don’t get used to it,” says Basti. He straightens, the hint of a smile curling softly at the edges of his mouth. “I’ll see you at practice. Captain.”

He strides off, confident, steady. Philipp watches him go, and tries to ignore the sound of his heart thudding painfully loud in his ears.

 

\---

 

“Hey,” says Thomas, over the chants of _Super Bayern_ echoing around the locker room, “you guys ever realize if you stacked up all the silverware we’ve won in the past month, it’d be taller than our esteemed captain?”

“Man, shut up,” says Philipp, and Thomas howls with laughter, all his teeth showing. As obnoxious as Philipp normally finds that laugh, today, of all days, it sounds like an angelic chorus, or it does until Thomas smacks Philipp’s ass with one hand, fires off a textbook salute with the other, and saunters off in the direction of his locker singing _Wer hat schon gewonnen, was es jemals zu gewinnen gab?_

“You know,” says Basti, from behind him, “I meant what I said in that interview. I could see the three of us in charge here, someday.”

“What, in Berlin?” deadpans Philipp as he turns toward his own locker, and Basti huffs out a laugh

(Thomas, Philipp thinks, will make a good captain someday. Not now, of course--not when he either doesn’t know or doesn’t care whom he might cut with that razor-sharp insouciance of his. But someday.)

He hasn’t had that much to drink yet--most of the post-game Paulaner ended up on other people--but getting his kit off is a little harder than he expected. His hands are still sticky with beer and there’s confetti clinging to his hair and getting in his eyes, and he swears under his breath as he fumbles with the laces of his boots.

Then-- “Here, let me--” and Basti is there, on one knee in front of him, hands as sure and deft as his feet. Philipp expects him to be quick about it, but instead he takes his time: unlaces each boot, slides it off, sets it aside with something approaching reverence. Before Philipp can react, he’s reaching for Philipp’s shinguards, and Philipp, feeling strangely frozen, lets him take those off, too.

Basti glances up. He’s still on one knee; Philipp is reminded, irresistibly, of a medieval tapestry he saw once on a school trip: some long-dead knight pledging fealty to some equally long-dead king. Basti must have had the same thought, because he laughs suddenly, announces, “My lord,” and presses a light kiss to Philipp’s hand.

His mouth is smiling, but his eyes are half-hooded with intent. Philipp’s mouth is suddenly dry. He wants to make a comment--something smartass, maybe, about how it’s usually Basti who has trouble taking _his_ kits off--but he finds he can’t. Instead he pushes himself to his feet, mumbling something resembling an excuse, and flees to the showers.

By some happy coincidence, the stall furthest from the locker room proper is empty. Less happy is the fact that the water, now just shy of ice-cold, is doing nothing for his burning face. Philipp stands motionless under the spray anyway, his brain running at a hundred miles an hour.

This--this isn’t new, he’s sure of it. It hasn’t been for a long time. And it’s not like he hasn’t thought about it before, albeit quickly, guiltily, pushed away with the excuse that it’d be deeply unprofessional and an unnecessary complication besides. He’s nothing if not cautious. There are a million different ways this could go south fast--if he’s moves too quickly, if he moves too slowly, if he’s read everything all wrong--

If he could stay in the shower forever, he would. But outside the cheering is getting more raucous, and the part of him that’s labeled ‘captain’, the part that’s never really switched off, knows he’s going to have to face it sooner or later.

He throws a towel around his waist and swallows hard, steps out into the hallway that leads back to the locker room, and Basti is--there. Hair a little mussed, a smear of dirt across one elbow, perfect.

Basti, he thinks, has always been there. His vanguard, his brother in arms, a fierce and reassuring constant. He looks at Basti and sees everything he’s fought so hard to achieve, everything he’s wanted Bayern to become, because Basti’s been at his side every step of the way. It isn’t that he’s taken him for granted--who could?--but he’s grown used to Basti in a way that almost feels like it, and the thought of it frightens him, a little.

Basti doesn’t move when Philipp approaches him, although something undefinable changes about his posture--expectant, almost, or tense.

“Hey, boss,” he says, and before Philipp can think better of it, before he can start second-guessing himself again, he grabs Basti by the arms and kisses him hard.

Basti stumbles backward for an instant, but he recovers fast. He’s undignified and sloppy in his haste, teeth clicking painfully against Philipp’s, one hand descending onto Philipp’s hip and gripping bruisingly hard. He kisses like he’s been waiting for this all his life. Like he’s finally _allowed_ to now, after everything, and Philipp realizes with a jolt that maybe it wasn’t his loyalty to just the Südkurve Basti was trying to prove, all this time.

Philipp’s breathing is ragged by the time they break apart. Behind them, the noise of the locker room is almost stifling in its volume. Philipp’s eyes slide towards the door. “Do you want to--” he begins, and Basti smiles, shakes his head, pulls Philipp to him. This close, Philipp can see the ragged white line across his collarbone, almost invisible against his skin.

“One more,” Basti breathes into the crook of Philipp’s neck. He smells like beer and grass--and, impossibly, gold.  “Just--one more.”


End file.
